The newcomer ordered a light lunch. He did not seem to enjoy it much. He ate it rapidly. Then he kept looking at his watch as if impatient for some certain minute to arrive. He drew the bill of fare towards him, fumbled it over, took a pencil from his pocket and began aimlessly to scribble on its reverse blank surface.
Finally he arose, and, pulling his cap well down over his eyes, proceeded to the cashier’s desk to pay his check. Just then Hiram came in at a side door. He slipped into the seat opposite Bruce and fixed his eyes upon his face.
“Don’t make any suspicious move,” he spoke under his breath and rapidly. “You noticed the man who sat at the table over in the corner yonder?”
“The one just paying his check? Why, yes, I’ve been watching him for the last half hour. He’s leaving the restaurant now.”
“Go after him, don’t delay,” urged Hiram excitedly. “I’ve been watching him, too—through the window. Follow him, and see where he goes and get word to me as quick as you can.”
“Why, Hiram——”
“Don’t waste time!” interrupted Hiram almost sharply. “I may be mistaken—I think not, and this is important.”
Bruce questioned no further. He was used to obeying his friend implicitly and he had a firm belief that, impetuous as he sometimes was, Hiram generally knew what he was about.
The minute Bruce was gone Hiram glided over to the table recently occupied by the stranger. His point of immediate interest was the bill of fare upon which the man had just been scribbling—Hiram scanned its surface eagerly. His eyes brightened from surmise to conviction.
“Aha!” he almost cried out. “I was right. It’s Mr. Borden.”